Little Sorrow

Among the thistles on the hill,

In tears, sat little Sorrow;

"I see a black cloud in the west,

'T will bring a storm to-morrow.

And when it storms, where shall I be?

And what will keep the rain from me?

Woe's me!" said little Sorrow.

"But now the air is soft and sweet,

The sun is bright," said Pleasure;

"Here is my pipe,—if you will dance,

I'll wake my merriest measure;

Or, if you choose, we'll sit beneath

The red rose tree, and twine a wreath;

Come, come with me!" said Pleasure.

"O, I want neither dance nor flowers,—

They 're not for me," said Sorrow,

"When that black cloud is in the west,

And it will storm to-morrow!

And if it storm what shall I do?

I have no heart to play with you,—

Go! go!" said little Sorrow.

But lo! when came the morrow's morn,

The clouds were all blown over;

The lark sprang singing from his nest

Among the dewy clover;

And Pleasure called, "Come out and dance!

To-day you mourn no evil chance;

The clouds have all blown over!"

"And if they have, alas! alas!

Poor comfort that!" said Sorrow;

"For if to-day we miss the storm,

'T will surely come to-morrow,—

And be the fiercer for delay!

I am too sore at heart to play;

Woe's me!" said little Sorrow.

—Marian Douglas.